


Hamilton Letters

by SterlingBeryl



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, Hello self doubt my old friend, M/M, Minor Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-08 00:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11070174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SterlingBeryl/pseuds/SterlingBeryl
Summary: In the summer of 1856, I returned to my childhood home in search of my father's memoirs. My mother had died two years prior, and in the last years of her life, remained ever fervently in love with Hamilton: She pressed upon me the responsibility of writing his biography, when considerable others had abandoned the task. In the pursuit of historical accuracy, I traced his footsteps through the making of America, in an attempt to recover those artifacts lost by time and bad repute.(it was a decent idea, but I'm not going to finish it)





	1. Return to the Grange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend patience while reading this fic; it required extreme patience to write it. Understand that this was not meant to be a fluff piece, or a humourous heartwarming little piece; no, I mean to stretch every muscle of speech I have at my disposal, to exhaust my writer's tools as I have gained over the years. Even now, if you are thinking, 'This is more than I bargainned for', then I will warn that the rest of this fic will be of similar weight, or at the very least I will attempt it. I have never tried this before, so inconsistencies will be expected.
> 
> Now that matter of business is out of the way, on to describe what you have stumbled upon! As the title and the tags have no doubt said, this will explore the relationship between Jefferson and Hamilton from the perspective of Hamilton, in a diary format. It will include other characters, to be sure, and it will become darker as we proceed.   
> The narrative starts off with John and James Hamilton returning to the Hamilton Grange to find what might have been left behind.

In the summer of 1856, I returned to my childhood home in search of my father's memoirs. My mother had died two years prior, and in the last years of her life, remained ever fervently in love with Hamilton: She pressed upon me the responsibility of writing his biography, when considerable others had abandoned the task. In the pursuit of historical accuracy, I traced his footsteps through the making of America, in an attempt to recover those artifacts lost by time and bad repute. 

The Grange was the house where my father spent a scant two years of his life, and where I spent three years of my teenage years; and what painful years they were! My young mind was then occupied first with the death of a brother, afterwards the loss of a father. It was no wonder my memory could only summon phantom images of gloomy rooms, silent tears, a dreadful silence permeating the corridors; things hard and cold on a child’s impressionable mind. 

The Grange conceals well its sad history; nestled comfortably on a grassy field, sitting amongst lush locust trees in their full summer foliage, led to by a wide path lined with overgrown bushes. The house itself was respectable enough, stout and firm, painted a pale yellow, and trimmed with white railing.  
The entirety of the scene gave me now, as I walked up to the house, a sense of serenity and peace, so at odds to what my fragmented memory offered me. 

Reaching the house, I hesitated before knocking on the door. The warm yellow paint had flaked off in places, streaks of brown wood could be seen through the whitewash of the pillars, and several windows were ajar, swinging eerily quietly in the wind. 

My brother James, who self-elected to accompany me when he heard I was in New York, remarked, “Perhaps no one lives here. Mother did sell the house in ’33.” 

“Yes, and we do not know what has happened over twenty years since.” 

As I spoke, the door swung open. In the doorway stood a little old lady, in much the same attire as the house itself, somehow simultaneously looking annoyed and surprised by the two greying men over sixty who stood at her door. “Now what do you want again?” 

Before I could furnish an answer, she batted her hand vigorously at us. “You religious types. I told the last ones I’m not selling!”

“Madam, I’m afraid you are mistaken; We are not representatives of the church.” 

She stopped waving her hand. “Well then what do you want?”

I pleaded with her to give us time to look through the house, to give us permission to revisit what was once our family estate. I knew not how to charm little old ladies; that talent lies with James. With our incessant application finally yielded results, and she unwillingly allowed us one hour. 

Thanking her profusely, we entered the house, where we did a thorough search of the lower floors (or as thorough as the old lady’s distrustful glare would give us) which gave no results. I bounded upstairs (as much as a man of sixty-three could) and left behind me the voice of James offering the lady a hand, and her loud refusals. 

Gleeful at having left behind my circling supervisor, I headed straight towards the room I believed, if memory served me correctly, to be my parents'. The hallways were dimming with the afternoon glow, overwhelming me with a sense of painful nostalgia, and I traced my finger over the rough ridges of the faded wallpaper, till it curled away from the wall. The block of sunlight from the window at the end of the corridor constructed a path of gold down the pale hall, and as I made my way down it, I expected my mother to step out of a doorway any minute, one year old baby Phillip in her arms, crying up a storm, a serene yet sad smile on her face as she stood at the window, looking out. Any moment now, a black carriage would start rattling down the dirt road, and the smile would melt off her face much the same way tragedy melts away happiness. 

I entered their room. James reappeared at my shoulder. “We don’t have much time, John - Your eyes are red, have you been shedding tears? I swear, you historians and your fantastical romantic notions…”

“The sun was in my eye.” I crouched down and pulled out a drawer from a bedside table viciously. 

“Careful brother, that might belong to the old spinster.” He leant against the doorframe and looked nervously over his shoulder. 

“No: the dust is inches thick on the mattress, and the doorknob would not budge until I forced it; It is likely the ‘old spinster’ had never ventured into this room.” I moved on to another drawer: nothing. 

“Neither am I particularly eager to find out what our parents might keep in their bedside table - Hurry, I believe I hear footsteps on the stair now!”

I paused after pulling out the last drawer. “James, is it just me, or is this one smaller?

The next few minutes was a flurry of action. We exchanged a glance, then with an unspoken word got to work. I tugged it out all the way, whilst James went to pacify and distract the old lady. 

“Madam, are you quite alright? You seem to be out of breath.” 

“Where is the other one? Weren’t there two of you?”

“Oh, he’s went to the bathroom, which I believe to be that way.” 

“Certainly not! I’ve lived here for five years now and I don’t know of any bathroom on this floor.”

“Trust me, my dear, I’d know this place like the back of my hand. We’d best escape the general vicinity however…”

Meanwhile I lowered the drawer to the floor as softly as possible, and hastily stuck my hand inside the wooden depths. It was fairly dark in the room, and there was no time to open the curtains, so I rooted around blindly, hoping for a latch, a clasp, anything. My finger now caught on a sharp metal edge. I pulled, and the wood I felt at my fingertips fell away with a soft clatter. I reached deeper in, and my hands felt something large, and wooden. I reached both hands in and tugged out a case, as long as my forearm and as wide as my hand. 

Concealing it in my coat, I made my way downstairs under the guise of someone exhausted by their own bowel movements. 

James looked up quizzically as I entered. The old lady exclaimed, “Why, are you quite alright? You’re clutching your belly rather strangely.”

“I’ll be fine madam, we shall not impose on you any longer.” 

James piped up, “Ah yes, old age, it gets to the best of us. I best be bringing him home now. Thank you for your time.”

He grabbed my arm and led me out the door, but as soon as it closed behind us, I shook it off and turned left, rounding to the back of the house. 

“John? She could still see us!”

“The curtains are all drawn.” A historian’s curiosity was burning in my heart, and (I will admit it) there was something charming about unearthing something at the site of family history rather than an office. 

“Brother, this is a terrible idea.”

“Hush now, we must be quiet.”

I opened the case carefully. Despite his bemoaning, James also peered curiously over my shoulder. "A stack of paper.” He scorned, “Is it worth being accused of thievery?” 

“They aren’t all blank.” I lifted off the cover sheet, and my father’s writing met my eyes. I say it was my father’s, but it was barely recognisable save for a few characteristic loops and letters. Whatever he was writing, he must have done so in a hurry; the writing was barely legible. Leaning closer, I started reading.  
_  
Writing is to me a balm, to ease the fiery impulses and fretting of my heart; shackle the words and fluid thoughts by permanence of ink and solidity of parchment. Half-sensible attempts made to separate the rational from the irrational and untangle the fibres that are so frustratingly intertwined. I have committed no crime of man, other than sin of thought; and by that admission alone, most will find enough to condemn me._

_I resume my pen now, in the morning of the aftermath of my distress. My pen has left near unintelligible streaks on the frail parchment; pitifully insufficient as a vessel of my torments. If the parchment is deemed insufficient, consider my words incapable; for the first time, wholly incapable of delivering even a shadow of my inner turmoil, no matter how fruitlessly and untiring I toil. The ink blots have soaked clear though the parchment, and have stained the oak on which it lies. Yes; unceasing must my efforts be, if I am to ever regain a glimmer of my irredeemable soul, return into the realm of light._

_Eliza, my angel, my light. I pray that you will never find these papers: the hopeless prayers of a man driven to desperation by the stubborn faults of his own flesh, the weakness of his mind. As weakness it most certainly is! Pitiful, repulsive man I am! If you only knew the thoughts that have haunted me and driven me half mad with self-hatred you would invariably scorn me, push me away from you in disgust._

_I only wish to return to the realm of rational minds, logical beings, that my own reason might strive to rein in the wild beasts of my inhumane passion. It struggles; it calls for help. But where I might find solace and consolation in the companionship and like-minded others, there is void._

_No one can read these papers. And if I cannot restrain my madness, lock it away inside the secureness of my mind, may they now be stowed away in the most secure vault, the deepest well, the darkest grave. Yes: with me this abomination of my soul must die._  
__  
"Perhaps we could leave it. Or better yet, bury it." James suggested, but even I could perceive the glimmer of curiosity in his eye.

__Curiosity was burning me alive; I knew there was no way I would leave the Grange without reading the papers in the box. No matter how condemning they turn out to be._ _

__"At least, there is no way they can be more damning than the Reynolds Pamphlet?" The involuntary question mark hung in the air as I said it. We glanced at each other, not knowing what lay ahead. What could have led to such strong reflections and despair in a man like our father, with iron will and steely righteous nature?_ _

__"Well, brother? Do we turn around?" The choice he left to me._ _

__"No, let us soldier on."_ _


	2. Thomas Jefferson joins the Cabinet

I shall now, as before any judgement may be passed of me, lay out my case as clearly and accurately as I know how to do. If I cannot fully recover myself as a logical man, at least I can return to the realm of facts. A mountainous task lays before me; How can I attempt to reason out the irrational? 

As all tragedies must, I will start from the beginning. It was the early months of 1790, January. I did not know that the man that was about to precipitate my downfall would soon walk into my life, but halt; allow me to tell the story as a younger, less sinful man. 

As night fell, the day’s work came to a close, I approached the President’s (How unaccustomed I was then to that address!) office as he had summoned me that evening. Snow was still falling in drifts past the windows, lending to night the illusion of day. Afar, the yellowish glow of windows shone muted through the flurry; Frost grew, delicate and fragile on the windowpanes, gleaming in the candlelight. 

My reflections that evening were calm, lacking in the usual vivacity and fervour. In the rare window of languor, I allowed myself a brief respite, childishly tracing my finger through the frost that gathered on the windows, feeling delightfully the chill that nipped at my finger. The future looked bright then. I was a man of thirty-two, with a brilliant, adoring wife, four children to boast of, and in a secure position as the President’s primary advisor; the first Treasury Secretary of America. America was at long last, en route to prosperity by the felicity of liberty: My successes and ambitions rose to the forefront of my mind; and I was momentarily buoyed by the bright future it proposed. Standing before that window during a wintry blizzard night, no bastard child had ever felt fortune smile so radiantly upon his prospects. 

The door to the President’s office opened. “Hamilton.” I turned to see the President smiling benignly at me. “If you are quite done writing on the window, would you come in?” 

“Mr. President.” This was spoken with a touch of indignant reproach. I followed him into the room and closed the door. The room had been newly furnished with elegant mahogany furniture. Despite the office being temporary, it was decorated lavishly, giving the viewer impressions of home (certainly, the President had spent enough nights here in the early days of his presidency to consider it so). A dark red carpet covered most of the bare planks. The centerpiece, a large table of darkly polished old mahogany stood in the middle of the room, with chairs surrounding the table of the same wood. The walls were snowy white and shone with a soft radiance, as the fire burning in the hearth at one side of the room threw a gentle glow on everything in the room. The overall effect was pleasant, the light of the fire creating the illusion of glazed honey on the wood, and the room smelled faintly of freshly cut wood.

“Alexander, I declare I have not seen you so relaxed in ages.” He spoke in a jovial tone. The light favoured him now; he looked a decade younger by the glow of the flickering flames.

“Sir, I too declare you have run me off my feet.” I respond genially. 

He chuckled. “But you would not have it any other way, no?” Indeed, I would not, and I told him so.

“Ah, then pardon me this one occasion. I command you to yield to laziness.” He replied with mock severity. 

I sat down on an overly large armchair that faced the fire. “For what purpose have you summoned me, sir?”

“Always so quick to the point! I will not allow that this time. Come, let us enjoy the warmth and the memories; bask in the glow of our triumph.” This seemed to be one of his most talkative nights; And in my good humour, I was disposed to enjoy it as it lasted, as fully as I was capable of. 

“I have to return to my wife, sir.”

“So I am to be superseded; And all my military triumphs and abilities would not be sufficient to allow me a victory in this instance?”

“Quite right, sir.”

“The pain of replacement stings! But it is to be expected; I tease only. So on to the point we move.”

He returned to his desk. I craned my neck to look over the back of the armchair as he lifted a sheaf of papers from the table and brought them over to the hearth. Handing them to me, he said, “Read them and tell me what you think.” 

The top sheet of paper included a list of names, all of which I recognised as political figures, some more prominent than others. The list was labelled List of Potential Secretary of State Candidates. The rest of the paper appeared to be a drafted letter to a Thomas Jefferson.

I blinked. “You mean to make Mr. Jefferson your Secretary of State?” I knew that this was coming. The President had often commented at length about the pitiful size of his cabinet, which as of right now, consisted of Henry Knox, Edmund Randolph, the pointless John Adams, and I. 

“That is, if he will accept. He plans to return to France to continue the propagation of American ideals throughout Europe.” 

“Sir, no American would refuse you anything, even if you asked of him his house, goods, and all earthly possessions.”

“You flatter me. Alexander, I want you to return home and read over the letter for me, copy out a cleaner version.” 

“Sir, I could have written this for you.” Normally I would be tasked with writing his addresses to the public, letters to other political figures. 

“Do not assume this decision was based on lack of faith in your skill. No, I merely wanted to ensure the sentiments were all mine. Well, off you run now, back to your doting wife and her feminine charms… Oh, and Alex.” Here he turned a strange gaze on me, a curious glimmer in his eye, “What do you think of the choice?” 

Seeing me ponder, he hurriedly added, “Mind, I do not mean to ask for approval or disapproval; my mind is fairly set on Mr. Jefferson. My question is based on curiosity of your thoughts on the matter.” 

I was not accustomed to his frequent queries of my opinion: I fancied that despite his assurances otherwise, my thoughts were taken into consideration. Upon first glance at the name, an opinon had already half-formed in my mind, based on what little I knew of Jefferson and his beliefs; As it would turn out, the uninformed view I possessed would be a fatal mistake. 

"Sir, I believe Jefferson a capable candidate: Having not met him myself, from what I know of his writings, his values and beliefs are truly American, and hold the best interests of the citizens at heart. His connections to the rural farming communities and the south would increase the southern participation in the government, as well as give said farmers a voice in the government as their representative." 

Here I paused. "I am not opposed to it." Some young, boyish part of me, hidden deep within, was in truth very excited by the notion of meeting Thomas Jefferson, the man behind those powerful words of the Declaration, arguably the most important document in American history. 

The President nodded. "I am glad to hear it." He waved a dismissive hand in my direction. "I will not keep you any longer; you are free to go." 

It was a fine thing to be trusted so by George Washington, first as General, then as President. My personal accomplishments clouded my judgement, my pride and ignorance blinded my eyes. It would have been far more astute to read more into the man, instead of feigning knowledge that I did not possess. 

I returned home to my wife; sweet, dear Betsey, and my preoccupations turned to those of loving my children. I swept the hair from their foreheads; I laid a kiss their on each sleeping child. Phillip, of seven; Angelica, of five, Alexander, of three. Baby James, barely one and a half, yawned and turned in his sleep, flung an arm in my face as I bent down. It smarted some, the little devil, and I heard soft laughter from my lover, my wife. I followed Eliza from the nursery, returned to our room together. By then, all thoughts of Jefferson had fled into the night, and certainly would be gone for many months to come. 

Alas, on March 22, 1790, Thomas Jefferson joined the President’s cabinet.


	3. First Meeting

I first met him on the 23rd of March. Indeed, the President wasted no time in bringing us together in a head-on collision. 

I should note here that the months between the aforementioned meeting and the events of the previous entry were of no consequence. Arguments were won, enemies were made and felled. I wrote much in those months, many essays were published; slanderous libel was similarly speedily composed and published. As such the relation of those months are irrelevant to the confessional narrative at hand. 

It was a lovely morning; The cold still nipped, and the trees were still bare of their foliage, but the snow had stopped, and lay in sad misshapen piles along the road as I proceeded to the President's executive mansion. The sky was the grey of down, and the clouds that wisped across that dome looked just as soft. To others, perhaps this might be just as dismal a scene as any other freezing winter day, cloaked in grey and dark tones as it were; I relished the cold, feeling the freshness of it on my skin, the crisp air that woke me as I breathed it in. 

I shall skip all the tedious events, and go straight to the root of the matter, then? Yes, I profess; I was dallying. I am not terribly anxious to relive that day, the recollection causes me much pain, and dare I say, regret. What there might be to regret, I do not wish to admit. Perhaps you might glean this morsel of confession from my narrative. 

I entered the President’s office at his summons, just as the cold rays of the winter sun crept up the wall. 'The President wanted company', was my assumption and thoughts, as the day’s business finishes. Yet more foolish thoughts! Truly, I astound myself with the recollection of my innocence. 

The fireplace was occupied by a hearty, crackling fire. A person stood at the window, backlit by the daylight. The light formed a halo, a silhouette around the figure. Indeed, I could not first discern from their bearing whether they were man or woman, though I do recall my first impression was, “What a hearty head of hair! (This persists as my only unchanging opinion of him)” 

“Secretary Hamilton, come meet our new secretary of state.” The President rose from an armchair by the fireplace. The figure by the window started, turned around, seemed to glimpse me. He strode over to where I stood, and offered a hand. 

I took it. The hand that extended from that purple cuff was large, the color of rich earth “Alexander Hamilton. It is a pleasure to meet you, Secretary Jefferson.” 

“The pleasure is all mine, Secretary Hamilton. I am afraid I have not done anything yet to deserve that title.” 

“Ah, that is of no concern. Mr. President rather enjoys valuing people for what they could do, and not what they have. It is the only reason I am standing here today.” 

“I suppose we will both get along merrily then.” The man smiled brightly, white teeth shown by the light of the fireplace. Yet I could not yet clearly see his face, backlit by the window as it were. 

The President cleared his throat then. “Secretary Hamilton, might I ask; How many hours did you sleep?” 

I will admit; teenage pugnaciousness had not quite left me at that time, and it wouldn’t until some other tragedy wrenched it from me; another story, another day. Washington’s query, as though I were a child unwilling to go to bed, left me quite peeved, considering a newly acquired colleague was standing by my side. I turned towards him, and keeping Jefferson in mind, tried to restrain my annoyance. “Sir. I assure you my sleep was more than sufficient."

"You look absolutely fatigued.” Washington peered at my face. 

“Forgive me for interjecting: The bags under your eyes are particularly pronounced.” Jefferson said mildly. I turned to Jefferson, with a scowl. 

“Sir, your concern is much appreciated, if not the fact you are now in cahoots with Mr. President; that does not bode well for my future.” His smile widened. 

To my relief, the conversation soon turned to political discourse, the particulars of which I will not compromise the confidentiality of. Over the course of two hours or so, I was quietly forming my opinion of Jefferson, now having met the man. His manner was unmistakably upper-class and spoke of old money. His countenance was amicable and pleasant, and the practiced manner in which he addressed delicate subjects was admirable. I myself have struggled with subtlety when anger and passion threatened to spill into every word, on days and nights when the nuances of passive aggression escaped my mind. His wealth gave me pause; he was dressed in a fuchsia overcoat, his cravat overflowed like a fountain at his collar, and he loosely gripped a cane that I had yet to see him make use of. But his tone was quite unaffected by his wealth. 

What eased me the most was his agreeable manner; mild, and hence pliable, I assumed. How wrong I was, yet again; doubly so, considering I had already taken note of the way he was well practiced in the the art of politician speech. A hound, well fed and given attention does not bite; a wounded, beaten hound, backed against a corner does. 

The conversation ended soon, far too soon. I protested, but the President shook his head and pointed at the darkening sky. 

That’s when Jefferson turned to me and smiled, extended the first invitation. “Would you like to continue this discourse in the comfort of home? I would enjoy your company.” 

I was much excited by the proposal; Jefferson was by and large an intelligent man. And intelligent men were few and far in between in my choice of employment. Rationality brought me to heel; Eliza waited for me at home. 

“I’m sorry Secretary Jefferson, I have to return home to my wife and children. But perhaps, another time, if the invitation can stand.” 

He smiled again. “Certainly it can, Secretary Hamilton. I await your reply. And Mrs. Hamilton is welcome as well.”

When one’s mind is set on something, it quickly gets accomplished. I believe the term to be ‘tunnel vision’. I had my sights set on having dinner at Jefferson’s; mostly because as I left that day I realised that the man who penned the Declaration of Independence had just invited me to dinner. 

I got home, spun Eliza around, and told her the news. Her eyes went round in surprise and her lips curved in gentle delight. For the first time in a very long time, perhaps since the war, we stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, drafting a reply letter to Jefferson together, giggling like young lovers, forgoing the tradition of kissing the children in their sleep. It was a lovely night: intoxicated on elation and lack of sleep, we persisted till 3 am before Eliza dozed off, quill in hand. I carried her to bed, light and bird-like in my arms, smiling at the half-asleep noises she made, breath hitching as she curled herself against my chest. 

Eliza, my dear. No one gave you the right to occupy a man’s heart so fully such that his waking moments are filled with thoughts of you, that every departure from you causes him pain. I said this to you in my letters in the newness of our love, and I shall say it here to you again. How ironic, that I repen the professions of love on paper I hope you will never see. 

A date was arranged quickly, and within two weeks Eliza and I were headed to his dwelling. I remember hoping he had not caught the sense of delirious happiness between the lines of the letter. 

When I alighted on his doorstep, Eliza on my arm, I felt the faint fear of not knowing what might happen; sadly, this warning was not enough to override my soaring anticipation, the excitement that gathered in my chest as I waited with bated breath for those doors to open. 

Damn me. Damn me for not knowing what that feeling meant, and what it foretold.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are still here reading; If I have managed to maintain your interest, then I congratulate you. Carry on.


End file.
